Heart of Flame Page 21

  “Mm?” He shrugged slightly. “I didn’t. It was a guess. But he was so sure you were a sorceress that I thought it takes one to know one.” He managed to crack a wry little smile at that point. “Besides, after Zahir, I have my suspicions about every man we meet.”

  Behind her veil, Taqla smiled in answer, though no doubt it was a wasted gesture. Then her smile died. “I thought he was going to cut your throat,” she admitted.

  “So did I for a moment. Luckily—” He stopped, swallowed and shook his head. “Oh God, how do you live with a stone heart?”

  She shivered. “Any way you like, I imagine.”

  Rafiq’s battered mouth curved into a smile. There was a moment of quiet before he spoke. “So. We have what was owed to Yaghuth.”

  “Then we’ve done it, haven’t we? We’ve got what we need?”

  He nodded. “Looks like it. Time to pull the chain all the way back in, link by link.”

  “We need to get out of here first.” She bent to the table and started jamming the rings back on her fingers one by one. Rafiq crossed to the window and peered out through the fretwork.

  “Get the Horse set up.”

  “We can ride from here?”

  “Across the rooftops.”

  She threw down the silver ball and watched it start to weave the shape of the Horse Most Swift. In the meantime, Rafiq returned to the vizier’s body and stripped from it his sword and scabbard. The new knife was already sheathed at his belt.

  “We’ve no saddle,” Taqla reminded him.

  “Then you’ll have to hang on tight to me.” Returning to the window, he chopped at the wood brutally, weakening the screen until he was able to kick a chunk out and look down. “Good. First step is a drop down to the outside of that dome. After that it’s nearly a flat run to the city walls. God willing.”

  “What about our stuff? At the caravanserai?”

  “Ah, now you’re trying to make things difficult. All right, but that’s going to need us to be quick…and lucky.”

  As the Horse completed its formation, he vaulted up onto the metal back and held out his arm to help Taqla up. She dropped into her familiar position behind him and thrust her hands into his belt as usual, troubled by how slippery the steed felt beneath her. Without a word, Rafiq grabbed both her hands in his and pulled them forward, crossing them over his navel so that she could grip her own wrists. Taqla found herself squashed up against his back, her breasts pressed to the vertical wall of his muscle. She made a nervous gasp.

  “Hold tight,” said Rafiq firmly. “Don’t let go, whatever. Keep your head down.” Then he spoke the words triggering the Horse into life.

  Taqla shut her eyes just before they hit the broken window screen and crashed through into the drop beyond. Her stomach seemed to squash up into her throat for a moment. Then she felt the jar as the Horse’s hooves connected with something solid, but she had little idea of what the footing was or what angle they rode at. She just clung to Rafiq as tightly as she could and hoped.

  Chapter Seventeen

  In which footsteps are retraced and several decisions taken.

  Tarampara-rampara-ram.

  The temple in the Empty Quarter stood much as they had left it, except that sand had poured down the slope they’d dug and in through the open door. The pale dome looked more like bone than ever, Taqla thought. Like the skull of some unimaginable monster. The wind had swept their footprints away.

  Jumping down from the Horse, it took her awhile to realize that Rafiq wasn’t following her toward the door. She swung around to see him standing in her trail, head cocked, looking grim.

  “Don’t you want to get this over with?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  She walked back. “What’s wrong?”

  “Taqla…I’m wondering if it’s right for us to do this. Give something up to an evil infidel god, I mean. Something that he wants.”

  “You mean you think its idolatry?”

  “No, I mean I think it might have consequences. For the world.”

  The same thought had occurred to her. “He’s barely a god,” she said, keeping her voice low nonetheless. “Just the stump of one—a shadow. He has no worshippers left, no power…”

  “Maybe. But we don’t know what he wants this stone heart for. We don’t know what he can do.”

  She looked down. “I think the time of the idols is over, whatever we do.”

  “And I think we still need to take responsibility for our actions.”

  She bit her lip, trying to hide her surprise, and nodded reluctantly. “Listen,” she began, searching for the right words. “I think that this journey you’re on is one meant for you. I think there is purpose in it. At every stage it would have been easy for us to run up against a cliff, for there to be no way forward. Yet every time there’s been a path.” She made herself meet his gaze confidently, though it was hard for her to speak of the secret thoughts on her mind. “I think it’s your Fate to fulfil this task, to rescue the daughter of the amir—and there is no Fate but that given to us by God. Take heart. I believe you will do as you’re meant to.”

  “You believe in me?” A smile crept into his dark eyes.

  “I believe in Fate,” she answered, turning away hastily. “So are we going in there?”

  “All right then. But bring the Lion Most Strong, would you? It would make me feel better.”

  So down they crept into the temple, as before, with the great silver Lion shadowing their heels. Under the windowless dome all was in darkness, and Taqla once more released a little spark of light to hang there, revealing the pale green bulk of the idol, the blades hanging overhead and—the only thing that had apparently changed—a scattering of dead birds strewn over the floor. She turned the nearest corpse over with the toe of her sandal and recognized a swallow, its pale breast unmarked but its claws clenched like tiny fists. Taqla was perturbed. Every spring the swallows visited her house in Dimashq, rummaging noisily among the vines that grew up the courtyard wall. Most flew on, but a few always stayed to build their mud nests under the arch of her outer door. She always looked forward to seeing the swallows, and though she didn’t know what had lured these birds to their deaths, she now swore to herself that she would shut the door to the temple when they left. She glared up at the statue. It stood exactly as they had left it… No, not as they had left it, as they had found it the first time. The stone fist that had clenched around the Senmurw’s Egg was open once more, displaying its trophy. Had it ever really been different, she wondered? Had they been fooled by illusion into seeing the idol move?

  “Yaghuth,” said Rafiq. There was no answer, though they both held their breath in anticipation of that corrosive whisper. With a certain amount of hesitation he unknotted his belt end, revealing the jade heart. “We return with that which Adhur-Anahid owed you. We’ve fulfilled our side of the bargain. Uphold your own.”

  Here in the gloom of the fane, Taqla could see a green glow deep in the translucent stone. The sickly light beat slowly, like a pulse, throwing into relief the carved contours of the heart, its chambers and blood vessels. Taqla felt her skin creep.

  “The little man.” Yaghuth’s voice was faint, but the blades overhead shivered. “He returns. Give to Yaghuth that which was promised.”

  “Give to us that which you promised,” he insisted.

  “Give to the hand of Yaghuth the heart of Yaghuth. Take from the hand of Yaghuth the Egg of the Senmurw bird.”

  Rafiq looked for Taqla’s nod, which she gave reluctantly, and then sized up the statue with its four arms. It was, Taqla thought, probable that someone standing atop the altar in the basin would be able to reach, at a stretch, both of the hands held out to receive offerings. To reach the altar would mean wading through the sea of skulls and putting oneself within the grasp of those arms.

  Setting his jaw, Rafiq jumped up onto the lip of the basin and then stepped down upon the ancient bones, which crunched and crumbled beneath his feet with no m
ore resistance than dead leaves. He sent up little clouds of dust as he trudged to the altar stone and Taqla tried not to imagine what that short journey would have looked like in the heyday of the temple, when the heads were newer hewn. Be careful! she wanted to tell him, but how he could be careful she couldn’t say. With a grimace, he vaulted up onto the broad altar, still holding the end of his belt out in one hand and the green stone within, and stood upright. He looked small and far too vulnerable against the monstrous green bulk of the god. Carefully he checked from side to side, examining the two spread palms, one of which held a skull, the other the Egg they needed. Then, abruptly decisive, he flicked the skull off into the mass below and nearly threw the jade heart into the vacated palm, his bare fingers grasping the stone for only the briefest of moments. Turning to the other claw he grabbed the Egg in both hands and hugged it to his chest before jumping down.

  Yaghuth sighed. The green glow in his hand grew stronger, casting strange shadows up on his carved double face. Taqla saw the whole surface of the idol suddenly begin to craze, as if something were bulging beneath the cracking stone. She didn’t think that Rafiq saw it.

  “Give to Yaghuth the bending of the knee.”

  Rafiq gritted his teeth and began the crunching path back through the bones.

  “Give to Yaghuth the red offering. Give to Yaghuth the woman in offering, and Yaghuth will raise the little man over all men.”

  Unwisely perhaps, Rafiq responded—with an instruction that even a god might find difficult to follow.

  There was a sudden splintering sound, and from the hairline cracks all over the idol a liquid squirted—green liquid like the algae slurry of corpse-fouled wells, that became solid as it met the air, a web of slender filaments that reached out and joined and became ropes of iridescent slime. The thickest of these whipped about and wrapped around Rafiq’s waist and chest, hauling him into the air as lightly as a man lifts a baby—and squeezed. Rafiq groaned and let drop the Egg, which struck the flagstones with a horrible crack.

  Taqla opened her mouth but had no time to spare for any utterance. She plunged for the Egg, her fingers snagging on the rough copper surface, and snatched it from the floor. It was warm and heavy, a part of her mind noted, though not as heavy as an egg of solid metal. She crushed it to her heart. When she lifted her eyes, Rafiq was being shaken about like a leveret by a Saluki dog. His eyes were wide, his mouth open, but no sound came from his throat.

  “GIVE TO YAGHUTH!”

  “No!” she screamed, throwing into that word and the one that came after it—a word in a language known only to Djinn and Angels and those with the hubris to deal with such beings—all her terror and anger and need. All her desire to save went into those syllables, and from the Egg burst out a wave of red-gold light that struck the green strings of slime and fried them instantly to stinking smoke. Rafiq was flung out and crashed to the temple floor. For a moment there was a sickening silence.

  “A sorceress.” Yaghuth’s voice was less loud, but no less malicious. The god who, until this moment, had taken not the slightest notice of Taqla, turned his focus upon her, and she felt her legs buckle.

  “Give to Yaghuth the bending of the knee, sorceress.”

  She couldn’t answer. She couldn’t even breathe. She was distantly aware that Rafiq was heaving himself to his feet, clutching his ribs, but almost all her consciousness was the prisoner of the deity whose terrible attention was finally upon her. And in that moment, she realized that all her nausea and fear was not the reaction of someone confronted with the repulsive, but in actuality that of someone staggering at the edge of an unimaginable abyss. It was vertigo. She looked with her jade-green eyes into his own, and saw a great void filled with innumerable years and unbearable understanding and the shadows of things not human either in form or mind.

  “Give to Yaghuth the bending of the knee.” The god sounded almost wheedling. “Give to Yaghuth the red heart, and take from Yaghuth the green—and Yaghuth will give to you words of power, sorceress. Yaghuth will give to you the forgotten names. Yaghuth will give to you the secrets of the ages. Yaghuth will give to you freedom and power and all the world to take in his name.”

  Her tongue felt like leather, her throat as dry as sand. She wanted to scorn him as easily as Rafiq had done, but she was far too aware of the consequences—what the punishment would be, and what she would be giving up. From the corner of her eye she saw Rafiq limping toward her. She thought of what it would be like to have a god on her side and to fear nothing ever again.

  “Yaghuth will give to you life everlasting. Just give to Yaghuth the bending of the knee.”

  If she refused him, then she would die, because the Egg of the Bird of Compassion, no matter what strength it might lend to help rescue another, had no power to help her defend herself. And if she died, then how would she get Rafiq out of there? Was she really ready to condemn them both?

  Would he forgive her if she did anything else?

  “No,” she whispered, because that was all the volume she could muster. “Never.”

  There was a moment’s pause. Then Yaghuth started to howl with rage and a black rain began to fall. Rafiq lurched forward and slammed into her, bowling her over bodily, his own form hunched over hers. She had no time to work out what was happening before he threw her underneath the belly of the Lion Most Strong. Something clanged off the silver overhead, and all around them the stone floor spoke in tones like the striking of small gongs. Rafiq hooked his fingers into the silver filigree of the Lion’s belly and tried to crawl in on top of her—and then he gave a cry and rolled on his side, his face twisted. Taqla glimpsed a slender black tail stuck up behind him—and then one of the iron rods plunging from the roof and breaking into rusty fragments on the floor, and she had just time to realize that he was carrying one of the spears stuck through the small of his back before another, with an audible thunk, pinned him brutally through the flesh of the thigh.

  Taqla didn’t stop to think. She hooked her leg around his and hauled his trailing limbs under the sheltering Lion, dropping the Egg for a moment as she rolled him nearly on top of her. He made a horrible noise of pain as the rod through his back struck against the beast’s silver belly, but then the rusted metal snapped. For a moment they just lay there while the voice of the thwarted god roared around them and the spears from the roof clanged off the Lion and splintered around them. They’d ended up face-to-face, on their sides, Rafiq’s eyes blank with pain and his teeth clenched, and between them his breath coming in gasps on which flew flecks of blood.

  “GIVE TO YAGHUTH THE BENDING OF THE KNEE!” chanted the god, over and over again.

  Taqla took a deep breath. Rafiq had one hand on her shoulder and his fingers were biting in so hard she thought he would break the skin. There was no help coming from him just now. She wrenched his hand off and then reached to his waist, unknotting his sash belt and pulling out the knife thrust through the folds. Since the cloth went three times around his middle there was a fair length of it, and she shoved one end through a gap in the silver wire over her face, threading it through the Lion’s chest. Then she knotted it in a loop under his arms and behind his back. She worked as quickly as she could, but it took some time, and by the time she had done, he was wringing with sweat and his pupils had contracted to tiny points as if he were gazing into a furnace.

  “Yes,” he managed to grunt, despite it all, taking hold of the belt. Taqla, wondering how much weight that cloth could hold, shoved the knife inside her own shirt and then took the Egg in the crook of her arm. She hooked the fingers of one hand in the filigree before she found the Lion Most Strong with her mind.

  “Step,” she ordered.

  The Lion Most Strong, unlike the Horse Most Swift, did not follow its own nose. Its default attitude was to stand motionless unless ordered otherwise. So it took a single pace forward, dragging Rafiq beneath it in his sling, and Taqla scrambled with them, gritting her teeth against the pain of the wire biting into her fingers a
nd using her legs to push.

  Step. Step. Step. Slowly they shuffled across the floor of the temple toward the door, and every step was accompanied by a rain of deadly spikes, some of which even pierced the Lion’s back and rattled around inside its belly. Taqla was thankful that Rafiq was still conscious, though she knew this mostly from his intermittent swearing.

  “Hold on,” she urged him. “We’re nearly there.” The daylight grew around them as they neared the outside world.

  Then the doors swung shut and they were in darkness.

  “Give to Yaghuth! Give to Yaghuth!” the vile voice burbled with malicious pleasure.

  Taqla bit her lip, trying to remember whether there were any of the hanging spears here in the temple porch and what the double doors were made of. Bronze leaf, she thought, over old wood. She let go of the silver wire and grabbed on to the sling holding Rafiq. “Lion—break them down!” she ordered.

  The Lion reared up on its hind legs and for a moment they were pulled upright, before it lurched forward and smashed at the doors with its forepaws. Chest to chest, the two humans dangling beneath it were flung about. Wood and bronze alike were rent asunder. Yaghuth’s voice rose in a wordless scream.

  Then they were outside and climbing the slope of sand, step, step, step, sand washing into their clothes and pouring over their faces, and it was all Taqla could to keep her eyes and mouth clenched shut and keep the Lion moving until they were no longer going up but only away. The moment she let her will slacken, the Lion stood foursquare. Taqla let go, dropped to the sand and rolled away from beneath its belly.